


Baby, I'm yours (And I'll be yours until two and two is three)

by merle_p



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-06
Updated: 2010-06-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>EDIT 7/17/2013 for Cory's death</b>: I wrote this story during the first season, and at the time I honestly wasn't aware that Cory Monteith had indeed been struggling with addiction. I just reread this story because someone kudos'ed it, and realizing that I made him get very drunk as a way of coping in this story now makes me very uncomfortable, knowing what I do now. People generally seemed to enjoy the story, on LJ and here, when I first posted it, so I am not going to take it down, but please, be warned for alcohol consumption that is problematic even for someone who does not have issues with addiction, but would definitely be considered a relapse for someone who does. </p><p>**</p><p>It's Chris' birthday, and while the rest of the cast is celebrating with him in a small, cozy club in SoHo, Cory is holed up in a hotel room somewhere on the Upper East Side, staring at his cell phone and steadily drinking himself into oblivion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, I'm yours (And I'll be yours until two and two is three)

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _Theatricality_  
> _Glee_ belongs to FOX. The title quotes the Barbara Lewis song _Baby, I'm yours_  
> For [](http://morgan-d.livejournal.com/profile)[**morgan_d**](http://morgan-d.livejournal.com/), whose prompt was: _ Glee RPF, Cory/Chris, "faggy" scene_. Could also be read as a companion piece to this [drabble](http://merle-p.livejournal.com/18606.html#cutid1).

His iphone, every time he looks at it, doesn't hesitate to remind him that today is May 27. As if he didn't know what day it is.

Today is Chris' 20th birthday. It's Chris' birthday, and while the rest of the cast is celebrating with him in a small, cozy club in SoHo, Cory is holed up in a hotel room somewhere on the Upper East Side, staring at his cell phone and steadily drinking himself into oblivion.

Or at least he's trying, because no matter how many gulps he takes from the whiskey bottle in his lap, he still can see Chris' face falling when he told him that he wouldn't be able to come.

"But …" Chris said, sounding lost and very young, "I thought …"

"Sorry, buddy," Cory replied, in a tone far too jovial to be honest. "I have a date."

A date with a bottle of bourbon, more exactly, but Chris doesn't know that. And Cory _knows_ how much this has to hurt him, because they have been flirting for _months_ now: a slow, gentle courtship, Cory being attentive and careful, watching Chris gradually open up to him, until only a couple of days ago he had actually found the courage to lean his head against Cory's shoulder during a short break between takes. And Cory had forced himself not to jump up from his chair and cheer, instead had curled a protective hand around Chris' neck and left it there until it was time to go back to work.

After that day, he barely could keep himself from ravishing Chris, but he told himself to be patient. He would wait till Chris' birthday, he decided, chose a birthday present with great care, and felt his heart beat faster whenever he tried to imagine how Chris' lips would feel under his.

And then _ Theatricality_ aired, and everything changed. Oh, he shouldn't have been surprised, because well, he had actually _been there_ when they had filmed it. But he'd never seen the whole episode after it was edited, and since for him, the scene at the Hummels' house ended with Finn's escape from Kurt's basement, he'd never really got to find out what came after that either.

So when he watched himself disappear from view on screen, when he saw Chris' face crumble into an expression of raw pain that was far too honest to be just Kurt's, shoulders hunched helplessly, mouth twisted into something tortured and desperate, it hit Cory like a sledgehammer: He was the one who made Chris look like that. He had made Chris cry.

And because apparently he's just as much of a coward as Finn, he did the only thing he could think of: he fled.

Which is why tonight, instead of dragging Chris into a dark corner of the club, cupping his rosy cheeks in his hands and tilting up his face for a tender, loving first kiss, he finds himself alone in his room with a bottle of liquor, not even man enough to send Chris a text message, or a tweet.

He finally passes out on his bed, empty bottle escaping from his lax hand and dropping to the floor, and sleeps until he wakes to the sound of his ringing cell phone. The screen informs him that it's four am.

"You are an ass," Amber tells him when he picks up.

"Did you _have_ to wake me to tell me something I already know?" he complains, and winces at the sound of his voice, rough and scratchy around the edges.

Amber laughs a joyless laugh. "Fine, then I'll tell you something you don't know: Chris is currently puking his guts out in the ladies' bathroom at the club. He was fine until around three, and then he got really drunk and started to cry that he was fat and ugly and that nobody would ever want him. Dijon, Kevin and Heather all offered to sleep with him just to prove him wrong, and if I thought it would help, I'd have let them."

"Fuck," Cory says, letting himself fall back against the pillows. His head hurts like someone took a baseball bat to it. He'd probably deserve that, too.

"Are you drunk?" Amber asks suspiciously, and he groans.

"Bourbon," he says. "But only one bottle."

"I see." She doesn't sound quite as angry anymore. "Look, we are taking Chris home now and putting him to bed. I know that you need to go to that breakfast thing tomorrow morning, but I'll expect you to fix this as soon as we get back to the hotel. You hear me? Or I'll make you regret that you ever auditioned for this show."  
The Glee breakfast is torture. He downs a lot of water and a handful of aspirin and tries not to show how shitty he feels for the sake of the fans, because it's not their fault that Cory is behaving like the worst kind of Lima Loser, instead of a responsible young adult going on thirty. But he is still glad when he finally manages to escape.

Chris is awake, but still in bed when Cory knocks on his door. He looks pale, and tired, and terribly hung over, and when he sees who it is, he flinches and blushes and makes a futile attempt to fix his hair. He needn't have bothered. To Cory, he's still the prettiest thing he's ever seen.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice still hoarse from alcohol and lack of sleep.

"For what?" Chris asks, wrapping his arms around himself like to protect himself. It hurts Cory to see him like that.

"For behaving like the worst asshole in the history of the world," he says and watches Chris blush harder.

"It's okay," Chris says quietly, not looking at him. "You don't need to apologize. I shouldn't have assumed …"

"Chris," Cory says. "Do you know how hard it is not to kiss you every time you walk on set?"

"What?" Chris' head snaps up, and he looks at Cory with wide eyes. They are red, and bruised, like someone punched him in the face, and the sight makes Cory feel even worse.

"I. Damnit. I think about you all the time. About 99 percent of the pictures I take on set are photos of you. I'm crazy about you, and it scares me, because I'm an insensitive oaf, and I've done a lot of bad things in my youth, and you are so young and lovely and small, and I had this nightmare last week where I dreamt that you were in bed with me and I rolled over in my sleep and squashed you to death."

He stops himself, taking a deep breath, and Chris blinks and shakes his head, as if he's trying to make sure that he's actually awake.

"Excuse me?" he asks, but at least he sound more confused than depressed now, which is definitely an improvement.

"The point is," Cory says. "The point is that I watched the GaGa episode, and I – fuck. I yelled at you, and you cried, and God, I never want to hurt you like that ever again."

"Wait," Chris says slowly. "Are you saying that you didn't come to my birthday party because your fictional character made my fictional character cry? During a scene in a completely fictional tv show?"

"I saw your face, Chris," Cory says bitterly. "That wasn't just Kurt who cried."

Chris raises a brow. "No", he admits. "No, you are right. But I didn't cry because of you. I cried because of what the scene reminded me of. And that has nothing to do with you." He sighs. "You didn't hurt me when we did that scene. You hurt me when you wouldn't talk to me the last week, and when you didn't show up for my birthday." He swallows. "I know that I'm not very experienced, or handsome, or interesting, and I don't expect you to actually …"

"Stop right there," Cory says. He crosses the room, and crawls on the bed, and even if he's kneeling awkwardly on the too-soft mattress, he reaches out to cup Chris' face in his large hands and tilts it up for a brief, sweet kiss.

When he pulls back, Chris' eyes are closed, and he sighs softly. "Don't mess with me, Cory, I beg you."

"Chris," he says, fingers still curled against Chris' cheeks, brushing his ears. "If I could, I'd offer you my heart on a silver platter. Actually, I will, if you ask me to."

Chris laughs softly. "As romantic as that sounds, I'd rather not literally hold your heart in my hands. Like, ever."

Cory kisses him again, quickly, just because he can, and then he lets go and reaches into his pocket.

"Happy belated birthday, Chris," he says, handing over the small rectangular package. "I wish you all the happiness in the world, because you deserve it, and more."

Chris gingerly fingers the ribbon and smiles. "Stay right where you are, and I think your wish might just come true."


End file.
